take her in his arms and demand to know what had caused so much hatred to build inside her. It was not just the branding—a hideous enough reason in itself, for with her flame-coloured hair and her smile (when she dared show it) as wide and bright as a summer day, she would have been a rare, exquisite beauty. To Friar, all the physical perfection in the world could not have rivaled her courage, her pride, her strength of spirit. If he could just convince her of this, draw her out of her anger long enough to see she need not be alone in her suffering …
What then, he wondered. What good would come of it? What manner of promises could they make to one another when the probability of surviving another sennight was not even guaranteed?
“We all walk about with ghosts and demons on our shoulders,” he said finally, breaking the silence with a sigh. “At times I confess to a pressing need myself to throw back my head and bay at the moon. But then I think: What good would it do to turn as savage and bloodless as those who would only rejoice to see the work they have done in bringing us so low?”
“It would feel good,” Gil said flatly, coldly. “It would feel as good for me to see my arrow pierce the iron tankard of De la Haye’s heart, as it must have felt for you when you plunged your knife into the breast of the Bishop Mercier.”
“The situation was different,” Friar said slowly.
“Why? Because it was done in the heat of the moment while the girl he was raping and mutilating was still bleeding on the altar before him? Or because you, Alaric FitzAthelstan, were born of noble blood and it was the noble thing to do, to avenge the girl’s death?”
“I did not feel noble doing it,” he said quietly.
“But would you have felt human not doing it? Could you have lived with yourself? Could you have lived with the guilt of doing nothing to avenge her death?”
Alaric knew the answer even as he saw the hard glitter of satisfaction in Gil’s eyes. He reached out and grasped her by the shoulders, squeezing hard enough to cause the water trapped in her shirt to seep through his fingers.
“At least I did not keep the burden of pain to myself. I shared the guilt and the horror, and by doing so, was able to find peace within myself again.”
“There will be no peace for me until Nicolaa de la Haye is dead,” Gil insisted. “Just as there will be no peace for the Wolf until he sees the Dragon lying dead at his feet. Yet I do not see you cautioning him to make peace with himself. Nay! I see you doing everything in your power, risking everything you say you so solemnly hold to value … to help him in his quest!”
His grip tightened further. “I would help you too, if you would but let me.”
“I … do … not … want … your … help!” she fumed. “I do not want anyone’s help, only God’s—and then only to keep the aim of my arrow straight and true.”
Friar held the resolute stare for another full minute before he thrust her away with an explosive “Bah!” of frustration. It was no use. She was as stubborn as a mule and twice as thick-headed.
“Sparrow is not the only one who spites himself by thinking to punish the rest of the world. The stench of your self-pity would rival his any day, and I leave it to you gladly!”
Gil watched him stride out of the dull halo of light. He was almost to the edge of the fern-covered slope before she cried out and took a step after him.
“Alaric … please! You do not understand.”
“No,” he said, halting, his back still to the lantern light. “I do not understand. I have tried, Gil. God knows. But a man can only slam his head against a stone wall so many times before he realizes the one will give long before the other, and he should waste his efforts elsewhere.”
“I have never encouraged your … efforts,” she stammered.
“No. But they have always been yours for the asking.” He climbed up the slope and was swallowed in the darkness, leaving Gil Golden a black silhouette by the inky waters of the Silent Pool. He did not hear the tortured gasp that was his name, nor did he see